The Oddments Drawer of 221B Baker Street
by Marion Hood
Summary: A collection of stories from the Flatmates series. Set over all three fics.
1. The Third Brother or Q

_**Set during Stalemate**_

* * *

MI6 wasn't a place Hermione had often had the honour of visiting. She found she rather disliked the experience, finding it an education in manipulation and, ultimately, a waste of her time. The meeting she had just come from had been with a Mr Tanner, regarding the potential of magical defence systems in espionage. He had attempted, somewhat foolishly, to coerce her into complying. She had, in no uncertain terms, told him to get stuffed, a story her husband would almost certainly enjoy. As she stepped out on to the street, Hermione scanned the crowds restlessly, her eyes catching on something that was probably a coincidence but looked entirely too real to be completely discounted.

The coincidence was slight, with a head of dandelion fluff hair in a shade that was remarkably familiar and the level of intelligence which had let him know almost immediately that he was being observed. She frowned, taking in the aristocratic features, the flask of tea balanced next to him and the sharp, curious eyes which stared back at her unrepentantly.

For a moment Hermione simply hovered in indecision, one thumb rubbing against her wedding ring. Then she crossed the stream of traffic and walked smartly towards him, her heels rapping against the pavement as she approached the bench. She didn't wait to be invited, simply setting herself down next to him and smoothing out her suit skirt.

"Lovely weather." She commented dully, placing her files on her lap. The plain manilla was designed to be unrecognisable from any accountant's office world wide, so Hermione wasn't overly worried about them being read. Besides all of her notes were coded in a somewhat pointless attempt to keep Sherlock out of them.

The young man next to her didn't respond and Hermione guessed that he was probably of an age with her and certainly not any older than twenty five.

"My name is Hermione." She said without any further preamble. "The surname used to be Granger, but it changed a few years ago."

Sharp eyes glanced from her to her left hand, blue eyes hidden behind stylish frames and the man pulled his anorak slightly tighter around him.

"Possessive, is he?" The man asked, accent cultured and precise.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Rather." She sighed. "Still, this could of course, be a complete coincidence but I don't believe in such a thing. _He _certainly doesn't." Hermione frowned. "I am almost certain you don't exist." She mused. "Either to do with your work, you're obviously employed in MI6 or, perhaps, to do with meddling higher up in the government from certain _individuals_. Anyway, I won't waste time asking your name, as I've done nothing to earn it." He did nothing to refute this claim, just watched her silently. "It's a pleasure to meet you, however informally." Hermione added, refusing to look away.

She waited for a second, but where her husband seemed destined to fill every second of the day with noise and action, this man seemed just as happy to leave them empty.

"Family is important." She said at last. "It always will be. Mine has always been unconventional and my marriage only increased that, I'll admit. But I will _always_ step forward for those who fall under my remit. I suspect that you would do the same." She reached out with one slightly scarred hand and touched the back of his where it rested on his trouser leg. "I don't know what that pair of _idiots_ did, but let me assure you if you ever need any help, anything at all, I will do everything in my considerable power to help you." Her teeth gritted. "No matter what domestic such an action may cause.

The young man didn't respond, and Hermione didn't expect him to. Instead she got to her feet and gave him one last smile before she strode off into the ornamental gardens.

"Have a nice day, dear brother." She called back.

* * *

The tall man melted out of the shadows, making his way determinately towards the bench. Eyes as cold as steel took in the woman's retreating back before he filled her now empty seat. She looked like a bureaucrat. She walked, however, like a soldier which was mix that nobody liked, least of all him.

"Trouble?" He asked carefully.

His companion smiled dangerously, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Hardly. Although there's certainly no need for your over protectiveness."

The blond man snorted at that but relaxed slightly, in the same sort of way that a panther relaxes to fool you into think you're not prey. His gaze was possessive however and the younger man seemed to endure it with some amusement.

"An old friend?" He inquired.

"On the contrary," The younger man teased. "A complete stranger. Or at least, she was."

"She seemed to know you..." He growled.

"She is remarkable intelligent." waved the next question aside before it could be asked. "Those of genius level intelligence do find it easy to recognise each other."

A further five minutes passed before the older man spoke again, straightening his suit.

"So are you going to tell me, or do you enjoy being smug?"

"Immensely." The smile turned into a smirk. "I believe I just had the pleasure of meeting my sister-in-law."

"One of those _nightmares_ managed to tie down a woman?" The blond exclaimed, disgusted.

"Oh, I'm sure there's an interesting story behind it." He coughed. "All though it is possible they actually did tie her down. She didn't really seem the type."

The other man rolled his eyes, used to his companions habit of getting off topic.

"What did she want? To warn you away like the rest of them, or...?"

"I believe she just welcomed me to the family." There was a quiet exhale of air. "I do hope she knows what she's gotten herself into."

"I didn't." His companion grumbled.

* * *

_**This is the first in a series of shorts which didn't quite fit into my Flatmates series. The others will probably center around Hermione and Sherlock's two years on the run and Mycroft and Anthea, because I like the idea. **_

_**Please tell me if you pick up on the subtext. Or the other pairings. **_

_**Recovering from a cold,**_

_**Hood and Genius**_

_**P.S for those struggling. Think Skyfall...**_


	2. Dr Hooper DI Lestrade

It had been four weeks since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

It had been five weeks since her best friend had walked out of her life.

And for the first time in a month Molly Hooper was finally allowed back inside her mortuary.

There was paperwork which was stacked up to her ears as the inquiry had kept her away from the vital work she had to finish. Everyone had been under investigation, from John Watson up to and including her mortuary attendants many of whom had never even _met_ Sherlock. She'd been asked the same questions over and over again.

How she'd known the detective?

When was the last time she'd seen him?

Had she had aided in his suicide?

Molly answered to the best of her ability and found that she hadn't needed to lie once because the answers were simple.

She'd met Sherlock work when he was consulting with New Scotland Yard and wished to examine a body.

The last time she'd seen him he'd been sitting on the floor, leaning against the cabinets in the laboratory.

And she hadn't helped him commit suicide. As far as Molly Hooper was concerned, Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Probably.

What really confused Molly, she decided as she added another file to her 'Out Tray', was the way no one mentioned Hermione. Not one of the police officers or the government officials or even the newspapers. Sherlock Holmes' grieving widow should have been front page news but somehow Molly's best friend had gone completely under the radar.

* * *

It took her the rest of the afternoon to remove the small mountain from her desk. As she shifted the last load of paperwork off the desktop the scent of scorched wood drifted up, tingling at her nostrils and she frowned, paused and then rubbed one finger across the small burn mark. It looked as though someone had pressed a red hot brand into the wood and Molly considered the stylised bird for several seconds before, very decisively, moving her desk lamp so it was covered.

So, no. Molly Hooper knew absolutely _nothing_ about the famous detective's death. The disappearance of her best friend however...well the jury were still out on that one.

* * *

She didn't see any of her friends for a long time. John had become a recluse and, as far as Molly knew, barely left his flat. She didn't know Mrs Hudson well enough to feel comfortable dropping around unannounced and she doubted Mycroft Holmes even knew she was human. So she was somewhat surprised to see a familiar face marching into her morgue two months after Sherlock's death.

"Molly!" Greg Lestrade called cheerfully, holding out his arms to hug her. Molly moved to greet him similarly, before she remembered that she was elbow deep in a corpse and Greg probably didn't want blood on his coat. She smiled at him instead and began stripping off her gloves and washing her hands.

"How've you been?" She asked as she finally managed to hug him. Greg wrapped both arms around her and squeezed tight, making no comment that the hug lasted longer than was traditionally appropriate.

"I'm fine, Molly." The detective gives her a bright, brittle smile, looking as handsome as ever. "Finally allowed off probation and I figured it was safe enough to come and see you."

Molly winced.

"You too, huh?" She murmured, vaguely acknowledging the surveillance she'd known she was under. Whether it was Mycroft or someone more sinister, Molly wasn't sure, but the unsettling feeling of being watched was now almost permanent.

Lestrade grimaced in agreement.

"Listen, can we talk somewhere..." He gestured to the bloody corpse, looking slightly off-put. "Not here?"

"Mr Jones isn't going to tell anyone." Molly grumbled but led the way to her office all the same. She offered him a chair, but noticed that he didn't sit until she did. Which was nice.

The police man sighed heavily.

"Have you heard from 'Mione?"

Molly started and knocked her coffee cup off the table with one sweeping arm. Greg retrieved the, luckily empty, mug from the floor and set it firmly in the middle of the desk, before turning to look at her, one eyebrow raised.

"Sorry!" She flushed. "It's just that...No. No, I haven't." Her voice squeaked and she only just resisted the urge to clap her hands over her mouth. For two months Hermione, much like her husband, had been this ghost who was never spoken of for fear of evoking the wrath of the dead. To actually say her name out loud felt wrong, somehow. She didn't think Greg actually believed her denial, but he continued on anyway.

"Right. Well, I had a visit from some thugs."

"Thugs?" Molly coughed and made an effort to lower her voice to below canine hearing. "Thugs?" She repeated.

Greg chuckled.

"Yeah. Right pathetic ones too. They came up to me outside the station of all the bloody places and demanded to know the whereabouts of one Hermione Granger."

Molly frowned, leaning forward.

"But..."

"...And I told them," He said, cutting across her with a smile. "That I didn't know anyone by that name and if they'd kindly bugger off. Now they didn't take kindly to that and they said they had proof I had known Miss Granger and that she'd been married to one Mr Holmes."

That caught Molly's attention. As horrible as it sounded, in their circles Hermione had been known by her marriage first and her, frankly outstanding achievements second. To hear Sherlock spoken of as an after thought...

"That's...unusual." She decided.

Greg scowled.

"Yeah. This is where it gets really weird though. They told me she was wanted for _treason_ and that with holding evidence could have serious repercussions."

"Hermione?" Molly thought it over. "She wouldn't..."

"Overthrow a government?" Greg offered. "Commit an act of terrorism?"

"Do anything bad." Molly corrected, glaring.

He shrugged.

"I don't know. But I ran her name through Interpol's lists, any list I could get my hands on even. Nothing. She's not wanted anywhere, not even for a parking ticket!"

"She can't drive." Molly murmured distractedly, still thinking. "What did you do?"

"Huh?"

"About the thugs?" She explained.

He grinned.

"I told them to piss off and set the desk Sargent on 'em. Haven't seem them since. I just wanted to make sure that they hadn't come sniffing around here."  
Molly assured him they hadn't and they sat in silence for a while, enjoying each other's company.

"Where do you reckon she is?" He demanded suddenly and she jumped.

"Away?" Molly offered.

He rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, I get that. I mean...Her husband died and she didn't even come to the funeral! That doesn't sound like the woman we knew, does it?"

"Have you asked John?" Molly murmured. "If anyone'd know..."

"I went to see him." Greg eyed her grimly. "It's not...he's _better_, I guess. Anyway I mentioned her name and he just sorta froze. So I asked if he'd seen her since..." He coughed. "And he told me that she'd found out what they'd said in the papers and left. Looked right furious about it as well, not that I can blame him."

"That...doesn't sound like her." Molly frowned. "Hermione was loyal. I mean, she hated Sherlock half the time, but she was loyal. To a fault."

Greg hummed in agreement.

"That's exactly what I thought." He told her. "She's a good woman." He added thoughtfully.

Molly was all too aware of this. It had taken her almost five seconds to fall in love with Hermione Holmes and in that short space of time she'd been beating her husband with a cooler in defence of Molly's honour.

What could she say? She had a weakness for stubborn geniuses.

As a result she'd been in awe of the woman ever since, although even she could admit that Hermione was riddled with flaws, her inability to give others vital information being one of them. Molly had never met anyone who could remain so closed mouthed about themselves.

"I'm sure she had her reasons." Molly offered.

"I don't doubt that." Greg leaned across her desk. "But the question is how did she manage to get all of her belongings out of that flat in the hours between that bloody article being published and either John or Sherlock getting home." He grinned again, looking boyish. "Doesn't make sense, does it? Because I can tell you, I looked. When people leave in a hurry things get left behind, socks, books. But there's nothing there! It's like we imagined her!"

Molly cocked her head to the side and thought.

"Hmmm. I knew they had to have a reason to make you Detective Inspector." She teased.

"Hey!" He scowled at her. "I am a great detective. I just _looked_ like a right idiot because I was usually standing next to Sherlock bloody Holmes."

She laughed, feeling happy in a way she hadn't in months.

"I know the feeling."

They continued to chat for several minutes before Molly announced that she really should be getting back to work and Greg agreed to show himself out. Unfortunately as she stood, Molly's lab coat caught on her desk lamp and sent it clattering to the floor, taking a flurry of paperwork, stationary and a paperweight with it.

"Shoot!" Molly bent to retrieve the detritus and froze when she realised the burn mark was exposed on her desk for all to see. Greg appeared to be staring at it, half crouched as he'd moved to help her.

"Where'd you get that?" He whispered.

Molly panicked.

"I...uh...I don't know. It was just _there_ when I got back from work." Resolutely, she covered it up again with the lamp, leaving the rest of clutter on the floor.

"Only," Greg said, sounding rather odd, "There's one just like it on my desk. I only found it when I came back from leave."

Molly stared up at him, startled.

"Oh," She whispered.

* * *

They met up again several days later, ensconced in a quiet corner of St Bart's cafeteria. Molly was picking half heartedly at her dinner as she was on the night shift again.

"They have to be connected." He argued, stealing one of her chips. Molly jabbed at his hand with her fork and laughed when he scowled at her.

"Well...yes. The question is who do we both know that could sneak into both our offices and burn things into our desks? It would take time...effort..."

"Patience?" He offered.

"Well...yes."

They met each other's eyes.

"You don't think it was her, do you?" He glanced away suddenly. "Only..."

"What?"

"The first time I met her there was this door which had been blasted open. And there was a burn mark on the door. The case turned out to be nothing of course, couple of kids wasting my time."

"It could be linked." Molly shrugged. "Maybe she's trying to leave us a message."

"Why us though? We don't know anything useful."

She chewed thoughtfully.

"It's just an idea." She pointed out, spearing another chip.

"We're probably over reacting." He added. "It'll be nothing."

* * *

"I found another one!" Greg hissed conspiratorially as he handed her a cardboard mug filled with steaming coffee. How he knew her order was beyond Molly's imagination. "On Donavon's desk!"

Molly led him out of the hospital without another word, only stopping when they were sitting on a park bench in a nearby park.

"Donovan came to me to report office vandalism." He explained. "So I went a looked and she said it'd been there for weeks and she'd only just remembered to complain about it. Do you think...?"

"That proves it!" Molly announced gleefully. "It _has_ to be her."

Greg stared at her.

_"How_ does that prove anything? They hated each other."

"No, they didn't." She assured him. Molly sipped her coffee as he almost squirmed impatiently next to her. "What department was Sally in before she transferred?"

Greg frowned for a moment.

"Domestic abuse, I think...ah."

Molly hummed in agreement.

"And if you were Sally and you heard that the psychopath you believed was one caffeine shortage away from a murder spree suddenly had a wife who was under the age of twenty five...?"

Understanding dawned on his face and Molly trailed off. It didn't paint a picture that any outsider would like.

"Oh." He murmured.

"Uh huh." She gulped at her coffee, eager to finish it before it got cold. "The way Hermione told it, Sally knocked at the door one day and asked if Sherlock was in. She nearly had a heart attack because Sally was being polite and..."

"Sargent Donovan can be somewhat difficult towards those who associate with Sherlock Holmes." Greg broke in diplomatically.

"If by difficult you mean a right bitch, then yeah." Molly's language caused the Detective Inspector to choke on his next sip, which made her giggle. "Anyway, Hermione invited her in and Sally started asking all of these questions. Really general at first, like did she have any hobbies, does she go out with her friends? She didn't even mention Sherlock, so Hermione was really confused. It took her a while to catch on, which is saying something for 'Mione. It wasn't until Sally asked if she felt safe in her home that she finally worked it out. So Hermione assured her that Sherlock hadn't bought her online and he wasn't abusing her..." Molly waved a hand through the air. "But..."

"Sally's stubborn." Greg finished for her, catching on surprisingly quickly. "And domestic abuse victims don't tend to admit to being abused."

"Exactly. So, they started meeting for coffee once a week and they...they weren't friends really. But I think they cared about each other." Molly shrugged, nonplussed. "They certainly respected each other even if Sally was just trying to fulfill her belief that Sherlock was a bastard and Hermione was just trying to prove otherwise."

"Right." Greg sounded completely unnerved by the thought that his second in command had been in regular communication with Sherlock Holmes' _wife._ "And that settles it _how_ exactly?"

"It's a message." Molly told him smugly and Greg grinned back at her for a moment, unused to a Molly Hooper who could finish an entire sentence without stuttering and rather enjoying the experience. "And I think we're safe to say it's from Hermione."

"All right, fine. What does it mean?"

Molly chewed her lip as she thought. They simply didn't have enough information, which meant that they were going to need to see the one person who did.

"I think we need to talk to John."

* * *

John Watson looked like a dead man walking, with pale skin and a left hand that shook almost constantly. His clothes were clean though, still dressed with regimental neatness which Molly found somewhat comforting. Mrs Hudson had let them in eagerly, ushering them upstairs and bustling around making tea for what looked like the first guests in weeks.

"How've you been?" John asked. It didn't look like he particularly cared, asking more out of habit than anything else, but Molly and Greg assured him they were fine regardless and waited until Mrs Hudson had left before they spoke again.

"We need to know if you've seen something like this before?" Greg handed over the manilla envelope that contained a photo of the symbol burned into Molly's desk. "We think Hermione left this as a message."

John stared at the picture for a full minute, and then he slapped himself in the face, which caused Molly to jump, and looked again.

"It's not a bird. It's phoenix!" He murmured eventually, eyes stirring slightly with curiosity. It was the most life Greg had seen from him in months. "Where on earth did you find this?"

"Them." Molly corrected confidently. "There's one on my desk at work, one on Greg's and one of Sally Donovan's. Probably one in Mrs Hudson's flat if we wanted to look."

John stared down at the photograph.

"She...Hermione, had one of these. A tattoo. She kept it covered with makeup most of the time, I'm sure Sher... _he_ never saw it. But I ran into her one morning and I asked and..." He traced the pattern with a finger. "She told me it was a phoenix. She said that they were these mythical creatures who never really died, even when you thought they were dead and buried, they resurrected themselves from the ashes. She told me she'd been a member of some gang or something and..." John stopped talking, stopped breathing even. His eyes widened and he looked up at them almost brimming with energy. "She...This message. It's for me?" He squeaked.

Greg nodded.

"We think so."

"But..." Molly swallowed. "If that bird means resurrection then..."

"He's not dead!" John whispered.

And fainted on to the floor.

* * *

Greg put the doctor to bed, rather impressing Molly when he carried the man up a flight of stairs without much apparent effort, and tucked him in. Molly put the flat to rights again, wrote John a note for when he woke up and accompanied Greg to the door.

"I could use a pint." Greg announced and seized her hand, dragging her to the nearest reputable pub. He looked surprised when she ordered a pint of beer and Molly grinned.

"What?"

Lestrade shrugged as they snagged a table in the corner.

"I thought you'd be a cocktail girl is all."

"My family's from mining stock." She explained, taking an, admittedly delicate, sip. "My dad brought me up in pubs like this."

Greg took a fortifying gulp of his own drink to avoid asking the question that had been on tip of tongue. Molly didn't mention her father often, so most people knew not to push her on it.

"I can't believe..."

Molly tugged on his sleeve and made a rather obvious gesture to remind him that they were in public.

"Me neither." She finished.

They drank in silence for a while, letting the quiet atmosphere of a Tuesday evening wash over the pair of them. Molly shrugged her coat off and pulled her hair out of her tight ponytail, leaving it loose around her face and Greg who'd been staring out the window looked back and frowned.

"What?" She asked nervously. "Don't do a Sherlock and tell me I look better with it up." Molly pleaded, only half joking.

Greg, still frowning shook his head.

"No. You're fine, Molls." She flushed at the nickname. "As always."

"You are being weird." She told him proudly and downed the rest of her drink.

"I am an idiot." Greg murmured, which only made her frown deepen. "Molly?"

"Yeah?"

He bolstered his courage and viciously kicked the large amount of self-doubt his ex-wife had left him with.

"Would you like to go out to dinner with me?"

Molly froze, did a remarkable impression of rabbit pinned under the headlights of an advancing car and then nodded.

"Yeah." She looked surprised by her own answer but the a proper smile bloomed on her face. "Yes, I would. That'd be nice."

* * *

It was almost two years since the death of Sherlock Holmes.

It was a year and a half since Molly and Greg got together.

And Gregory Lestrade was down on one knee in the middle of the mortuary, proposing to Molly Hooper.

"Kinda need an answer Molly." He prompted, trying and failing to not look nervous.

Molly grinned and threw herself at him, which he took as a yes.

* * *

**A/N**

**This is the next one.**

**What did you think?**

**I'm...not in a good place right now. People keep making the introvert do things.**

**Feedback would be good. **

**Hood**


	3. Meeting Mycroft

Mycroft Holmes waited patiently in his office, eyes occasionally glancing down towards the file he'd memorised days earlier which was open on his desk. Words like "_Outstandingly brilliant_" and "_Approach with caution_" caught his eyes frequently.

"Who is she?" Anthea asked quietly, setting her phone down on the side table with an audible _click_.

"A hero." Mycroft said blandly. "One of them, you understand."

Anthea did.

"This isn't usually our department." She reminded him and Mycroft felt the corner of his mouth curve in a smile. It wasn't actually _anyone's_ department.

"It isn't usually an issue." He pointed out. "They take who they want and they deal with their own problems. This is the first time anyone has ever wanted to leave."

Anthea leaned over, clicking through the CCTV feeds.

"She's young."

"Only in looks." Mycroft murmured. "She's expected in at six. I imagine it will be a memorable meeting."

"Should I be armed, sir?"

"I seriously doubt it would do any good." He sniffed and closed the file. "But perhaps we could order in some cake...?" He asked hopefully.

Anthea glared at him.

"Biscuits?" He sighed.

She nodded gracefully.

"I can have a tea tray brought up." She said approvingly.

Mycroft sighed.

"Et tu, Anthea?" He asked, somewhat dramatically. His personal assistant merely smirked and strode away, already tapping at her phone again.

* * *

Mycroft watched remotely as the woman made her appearance in Kings Cross Station. It took quite a lot of concentration to manage this. Partly because of the nature of a London train station at half five in the evening and partly because, some small rebellious part of Mycroft's mind, simply did not want to _look_ at the pillar between platforms nine and ten. Mycroft quashed that rebellion resolutely and watched as families and children poured from seemingly nowhere, each a more bizarre sight than the last.

Hermione Granger blended in perfectly, her school uniform neatly pressed, robes thrown over one arm in a manner which made them look simply like a coat. She didn't appear to have any luggage with her, save for a handbag she had slung over her shoulder. She glanced around her and Mycroft hummed approvingly as she regarded everyone with suspicion before she tucked her hair behind her ears and pressed into the crowd.

Even with the rush hour pressing about her, she was easy to follow. People stopped and stared, some whispered behind their hands and more brazen ones openly pointed. Granger didn't seem to notice, quietly dodging her way past oblivious humans towards the ticket barriers and the exit. She hailed a taxi outside with the ease of someone born to London and ducked into the black cab, vanishing from the security camera's sight.

Mycroft would admit with no reluctance the _astonishment _he'd felt at receiving word from a witch, not least because she had addressed the letter directly to _his _office_._ Granger had explained her situation and her intentions and had simply requested a meeting. There was no unnecessary flattery, nonsense or threats that usually came with handwritten letters and, although Anthea had voiced her doubts, Mycroft had penned his reply immediately, agreeing.

Not for the first time, Mycroft regretted the low profile her people kept. So low in fact, that there wasn't a government official appointed to dealing with them. But at the same time he also relished it. His brother's experience lay in people, in what they did or how they functioned. Admittedly, Sherlock's grasp of _why_ they did it was rather weak, but his brother would always lack certain skills.

Mycroft dealt in power, of which he wielded the most. That wasn't arrogance, that was fact. And Mycroft knew the power this woman brought with her, power which could influence things beyond his reach. But in order to wield her power, he first needed to have power over her. Everyone could be controlled, everyone could be pressured into doing the right thing, into what he deemed was the _right_ thing.

Mycroft wasn't a good man, but he was an _effective_ one.

The cameras picked up Granger as she stepped from the taxi cab, rubbing tiredly at her eyes and almost walking straight into a bollard. The woman appeared exhausted, shoulders slumped and arms folded loosely about her middle. Exhausted and vulnerable.

The security guard challenged her, and the witch instantly produced the summons he'd sent her. It had Anthea's name on top of it as that caused less issues than his own and the guard escorted her to reception where she was waved towards the lift. As soon as the doors closed, Anthea's desk phone rang.

He listened quietly to the sound of Anthea confirming the guest's appointment, whilst watching the guest in question wring her hands in the lift.

**Five...**

The woman sighed, rolling her shoulders and Anthea set down the phone.

**Four...**

Anthea got up and began to head towards the lift as the woman dropped her hands to her side.

**Three...**

Both straightened their skirts.

**Two...**

Anthea pocketed her mobile.

**One...**

Hermione Granger threw back her shoulders, calmed her expression and stepped brazenly out from the lift, smiling a charming, if cold, smile at Anthea, who replicated the expression perfectly.

"Miss Granger?" He heard from the corridor, whilst he watched Anthea's lips move through the camera.

"Miss..." Granger waited until Anthea supplied her name, not even blinking at the lack of a surname. "Miss Anthea. A pleasure, I'm sure."

Anthea simply nodded.

"Mr Holmes will see you now." She guided the woman through the outer office and into Mycroft's inner sanctum just as Mycroft shut his laptop with a snap and stood up.

"Mycroft Holmes," He greeted holding out his hand. Behind the witch, Anthea rolled her eyes. She claimed he sounded like a rich prat whenever he introduced himself. Seeing as, broadly speaking, that's what he was, Mycroft didn't argue with the assessment.

"Hermione Granger." She shook his hand twice with a firm grip, before seating herself in the chair provided. "Thank you for taking the time to see me."

Looking her over Mycroft saw many things. Her history, her fears, the wounds and the scars, both mental and physical, but most worryingly of all...he saw her looking back.

Hermione Granger sat there, staring at him calmly and let him look, all the while displaying a skill only his brothers had ever shown signs of possessing. She stared at him and didn't flinch, merely waited for him to come to the same assessment she had. Miss Granger would not be coerced, that much was obvious.

"Why?" He challenged and Anthea left to fetch the tea tray.

Hermione smiled at him pleasantly, outwardly displaying almost none of her inner tension.

"Why, what, Mr Holmes?"

"Why leave?"

The woman sighed and pushed back her curls, which had sprung out from behind her ears. He could vaguely remember Sherlock having similar problems as a boy.

"You've checked up on me, I assume?" Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow and she nodded. "Then I'm certain you know _why._ I believe your real question is why leave _now_?" Mycroft waved her on with a careful gesture and she shrugged. "Simply put, Mr Holmes, I am done with it all."

"Why did you go back to school?" He asked. "Last year would have seemed the logical point to leave..."

"People are not logical," She sighed, one thumb rubbing against the cuff of her sleeve. "And it is to your detriment to think they might be. I went back to school to prove that I could. To prove that it had all been worth it. To see if I could fit back into the role that was expected of me. As it turns out, I can't."

Anthea slipped into the room and set the tea tray down on his desk without rattling a single cup. She poured three teas without asking and set the saucer, teaspoon and milk in front of Granger without prompting. Hermione smiled, added a drop of milk to her cup, stirred it exactly twice before tapping the spoon off the side of the cup and setting it in her saucer. Mycroft, when he was certain Anthea was too busy doctoring her own tea to notice, added two sugar cubes to his cup, but didn't dare draw attention to it by stirring.

"Thank you." Hermione murmured, sipping the tea delicately.

"And so you are leaving?" Mycroft murmured.

"I have made up my mind." Unlike many people who came before Mycroft and said that, Miss Granger actually meant it. There was no hesitation, no reluctance. She had thought through the options and had settled for the course of action she felt best. For her first truly independent step in years, Mycroft felt she had made a good choice.

"These things can be hard to leave behind." He acknowledged and she nodded.

"Not much to be done about that." She agreed evenly.

Mycroft reached for his teacup and grimaced when he found the drink bitter and unsweetened. Next to him Anthea looked smug, whilst Miss Granger simply watched the pair of them in amusement.

"What about family?" He asked. "It helps to have alibis when one reappears into society."

Here Hermione visibly paused and Mycroft thought back to the rather grisly photographs of her parents murder.

"No family." She said at last. "Or blood relatives at least. There are family friends, I suppose." She paused for a moment and then said decisively, "Auntie Martha. She knows me. I could get in touch with her." It sounded rather as though she was ordering herself to do so, rather than telling him her plans and Mycroft frowned, reminded vaguely of someone. "Is that your brother?" She asked abruptly.

Mycroft almost flushed.

Almost.

"Sherlock. You may have heard of him?" He nodded when she shook her head. "Rather the show pony these days, I'm afraid." They looked at the picture of the bright young boy, tight curls poking out from under a pirate hat made from newspaper. "That was taken a long time ago."

"You love him?" She asked bluntly and even Anthea looked up from her phone to stare at the witch.

"With every beat of my cold, dead heart." Mycroft hissed mercilessly.

Hermione chuckled.

"I'm not being callous." She defended. "I was merely curious. It would be easier not to care, wouldn't it?"

Mycroft paused and laced his fingers together.

"Without a doubt." He agreed. "But that's the burden of family, I suppose."

The witch leaned back, looking thoughtful as Anthea returned to her phone.

"I wouldn't know." She said.

"You need a past." He announced. "Something that stands up to strong scrutiny..."

"And hides the fact I vanished off the face of the Earth for several years and have as many formal qualifications as a tea cake." She finished dryly. "That sounds about right. How much would it cost me?"

Mycroft didn't bother to look innocent.

"I believe..." He murmured, meeting Anthea's gaze. "That the British Government is in your debt. Not only did you save the country but also the secrecy which has protected your kind for centuries. There are some things the masses are better off not knowing." It was his belief that the masses were better off not knowing _most_ things, but even Mycroft couldn't achieve a miracle. "So...I believe this one shall be free. Anthea can work out the details for us and we'll be in touch, I'm sure."

Hermione nodded firmly and drained her cup.

"That sounds wonderful." She smiled and Mycroft noted it was genuine.

"Where will you go?" Anthea asked, because some things sounded better coming from Anthea.

Hermione smiled blandly.

"I'm hoping an old family friend will take me in. Otherwise, Kensington. I've still got the house, so..." She trailed off, once again looking sad and tired.

"Of course." Mycroft got to his feet and Hermione mirrored him, holding out her hand to shake. "A pleasure meeting you, Miss Granger."

She laughed and shook his hand.

"Of course. Thank you for your help." She turned to leave and Anthea escorted her out. His assistant returned some time later and Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"Preliminary findings?" He asked and Anthea snorted in an unusually unladylike fashion.

"She is a lot smarter than she pretends to be." Mycroft nodded. Childhood bullying had caused her to hide some of her brilliance, for reasons he didn't completely understand. "She's a soldier," Anthea continued. "Like Dr Watson. But not, I think, as loyal."

Mycroft smiled at that.

"You really think so? I think she is, but perhaps only herself. She has been pressured into things before. It would take more than loyalty to get her to go against her morals."

Anthea collected the tea things.

"A neutral party then, sir?"

Outside the city blared with car horns and people bustling to and fro. All to easy to lose one witch in London. Mycroft sighed.

"I do not think that Miss Granger will present any major issues. In fact I rather doubt us ever seeing her again."

* * *

A week later Mycroft scowled as he stared down at the worryingly accurate drawing of Miss Granger. It was unmistakeably Sherlock's work, not that his brother often indulged in the practise of sketching. He sighed heavily and met Anthea's mirthful gaze.

"It would appear," He said stiffly. "That I was wrong."

She passed him his umbrella.

* * *

_**A/N**_

_**Sometimes things don't go according to plan. This is, of course, set prior to Flatmates. **_

_**Hood**_


	4. A Favour For Q

Hermione kept tabs on those she cared about.

It was a family trait. Sherlock had people followed, Mycroft had their every move monitored. Hermione's approach was rather more simple.

She read her emails.

Whilst her husband preferred to have people in his debt, Hermione found it endlessly simpler to make friends with people and hope they came through in the end. It was a rather Hufflepuff way to operate, but it had served her well thus far.

The email which had come though from MI6 had only one line in it and no subject matter.

**He hasn't left the office in a week.**

Hermione stared it it thoughtfully. It wasn't as if she didn't have the time to help, Sherlock hadn't been seen since John's wedding and while she _was_ worried she also was fairly certain that her husband would find his way home eventually. Or at least, that's what the note pinned to the back of the bathroom mirror had promised her.

She began to close down her computer internally praising, not for the first time, the magic proof system Mycroft had had shipped over from a technomage in America for her. She sent the department owl, who had been hopefully eyeing Stephan- the department goldfish- off with the last of the day's letters and donned her coat as she shoved files into her bag.

Anthea watched her approach Mycroft's office with the mild interest she usually reserved for pompous bureaucrats who thought they could bully him into ''_Budgeting_''. They never stayed long and only the truly determined ones made it past Anthea's..._unique_ secretarial skills.

''He's busy.'' She pointed out bluntly.

Hermione didn't bother to roll her eyes.

''He's always busy and I'll only be a moment.'' She stepped into Mycroft's office and Anthea just sighed, picking up her mobile. ''Mycroft?''

Her brother-in-law looked up from his desk and raised an eyebrow.

''Mrs Holmes.'' He greeted cordially, setting down his pen.

''I have a name.'' She grumbled, momentarily distracted. Hermione shook herself and got back on track. ''I'm taking a few days off.''

Mycroft stared at her. Not for the first time she wondered what he saw when he looked at her.

''Very well.'' He murmured.

Hermione nodded and turned to leave. She was almost at the door when he said quietly,

''Thank you, Hermione. You are the best of us, I'm afraid.''

Hermione sighed and tried not to wonder if he actually knew what she was up to or if he was just expressing general gratitude. It would be a waste of energy.

''Of that, brother dear,'' She murmured ''I am very well aware.''

* * *

Hermione's Government ID card got her into most places and the nameless civil servant who met her seven security doors into MI6's newest headquarters took her the rest of the way. She was a nondescript woman, with dark hair and wireless glasses. There was a badge pinned to her jumper which read, ''_Chief Minion_'' in spiky handwriting.

''Thank you for coming.'' The woman murmured as she lead Hermione deeper into the building. ''We didn't know what to do. Most of our usual extraction methods require...'' She sighed. ''Well, they aren't working at the moment. I was hoping you might be able to do something else.''

Hermione spared a moment to think about having extraction methods for a Department Head, before she remembered the list of techniques she and John had for ensuring Sherlock actually ate something when he was on a case. It was pinned to the fridge.

The Chief Minion came to a stop outside a set of glass doors. On the other side, muted by the soundproof glass, chaos reigned. The large screens flickered between different tabs at a terrifying rate as their operator worked at lightening speed. Department members were sleeping on their desks or shouting at each other across the room, what Hermione hoped was tomato soup was dripping down one wall and one man appeared to be smouldering quietly in a corner.

''You were right to call me.'' Hermione admitted, opening the door.

Immediately the noise of clacking keyboards, squabbling voices and the rapid retort of gunfire washed over her and Hermione sighed, squaring her shoulders. She handed her bag to the other woman and undid the buttons holding her coat fixed around her waist, so it billowed properly.

Sometimes, on very rare occasions, her husband was right. Presence had a lot to do with your entrance. Not that she'd tell him that mind you.

She lifted her chin and stepped through the door, eyes fixed on the figure standing on the centre dais. A hush started next to her as she strode up the room and it spread until the only sound came from the frantic tap of the Department Head's keyboard and the rap of Hermione's heels off the cement floor.

The man in question was a dishevelled mess, his hair standing on end, clothes wrinkled and stained. His shoulder's stiffened as she approached and the typing slowed slightly as she came to a stop behind him.

''I am trying to work.'' He hissed venomously, not looking around. ''You cannot just barge in here and bring my entire department to a halt.''

Hermione glanced around idly and realised that the entire department was indeed staring at the pair of them, mostly from behind lenses. They all appeared to be holding their breath.

''No.'' She agreed quietly. ''But you do appear to be trying to kill yourself. Or at the very least get yourself fired.''

The typing stopped and the man turned to stare at her.

''I thought you were Eve.'' He murmured, scowling at her in a way which told her he was confused and not particularly happy about it. ''What are you doing here?''

''If you were in any fit state to work, you'd already know the answer to that.'' He winced. ''Besides, I told you. I take care of my own and you seem to fall under my remit. When was the last time you slept?''

He clenched his teeth but behind him the words ''_Three Days Ago_'' flashed up on one of the screens. Hermione scowled.

''Three days? Honestly, you're worse than my husband.''

The man, although really he wasn't much older than Hermione, stiffened.

''Do _not_ compare me to him.'' He snarled, furiously.

Hermione scowled.

''Then desist in acting like a spoiled child and _go and get your coat__!_'' She sighed, lowering her voice. ''Please. Whatever it is, I can help, but you're no good to anyone in this state.''

His hands, hanging loosely by his side, twitched as he tapped ten long fingers against his palms one at a time. Then his shoulders slumped and he nodded.

''Very well.'' He muttered and stepped off the dais, heading for the glass office, ensconced against one wall. ''R, you have the floor.''

Hermione waited until the door had swung closed behind him before rounding on the rest of the Department.

''As for the rest of you,'' She snapped, in a tone that would have done Professor McGonagall proud. ''For the love of Merlin, pull yourselves together. Anyone who's been here longer than eighteen hours go home. Anyone who hasn't eaten in longer than twelve go to the canteen. Anyone who needs to sleep go and have a nap and _not_ at your desks. Someone clean that mess off the wall,'' She gestured to the large soup smear. ''And do any of you realise that that man is on _fire_?''

For a moment they all blinked at her so Hermione folded her arms and stared them down. Then department was a bustle of activity second later as people rushed here and there, someone wielded a fire extinguisher, several others grabbed their coats and just sprinted for the exit and a few shut their laptops with decisive snaps and vaulted over their desks in order to get to what looked like a nest in one corner. It was really a large indent in the ground filled with pillows, a TV and what Hermione suspected was some sort of computer game. She didn't really keep herself up-to-date on such matters.

The man was back several minuets later, coat on and a weary and defeated slump to his shoulders.

''Come on, dear.'' Hermione murmured. ''Nothing more to be done here.''

* * *

The cab ride back to Baker Street was quiet with only one escape attempt that Hermione quickly foiled. The now thoroughly dejected man allowed him to be lead through the black door into the hallway beyond.

''Hermione?''

Hermione sighed and considered ignoring her landlady. Then she discarded the plan immediately, because forces like Mrs Hudson could not simply be ignored.

''Yes?'' She called back, ushering her guest up the stairs.

''Rent's due, dear. And you know I hate to ask, what with Sherlock...''

''I'll transfer it tonight.'' Hermione told her from the upstairs landing. ''I've got a client, Mrs Hudson.''

''Oh, bother...'' Mrs Hudson drifted off into unintelligible muttering and wandered deeper into her own flat. Hermione closed the door with a sigh. She motioned for him to take his coat off and unbuttoned her own, hanging it on the hat stand as she kicked off her shoes.

''I'm making tea.'' She announced. Rafiki curled around her ankles with a purr and she stood still long enough to allow him to jump onto her shoulders. ''Do you want some?'' She shoved him gently towards John's old armchair.

''Earl Grey?'' He asked hopefully.

''English Breakfast. Like it or lump it, I'm afraid.'' She clicked the kettle on and set about putting together a tea tray. ''Sherlock's something of a traditionalist. And with so many strangers coming in and out of here, it makes sense to just have something reliable.'' As it was just her in the flat at the moment, there was actually food in the cupboards. Hermione eyed the back of her guest's head speculatively and grimaced when Rafiki meowed loudly in her ear. Sandwiches it was then.

Eventually she had the tea brewing and a collection of sandwiches cut into triangles, so she carried it over to the coffee table on a tray, trying not to overbalance. Rafiki was a large cat and had a habit of readjusting his weight mid-transit.

He opened his eyes from his doze when she handed him his cup and eyed the food with mild interest. The cat took a flying leap off Hermione's shoulder and landed of the opposite armrest, eyeing the stranger with interest.

''You're not allergic to cats, are you?'' Hermione asked. She smiled when he shifted his grip on the cup and politely held out his hand for Rafiki to sniff.

''Doesn't your husband mind cats?'' He inquired, deceptively blandly.

Hermione snorted.

''If he is allowed to keep dead body parts in the fridge, then I am more than entitled to a cat. Besides, I believe he has a flair for the dramatic and the cat makes people nervous.''

''This isn't a cat.'' The man pointed out, staring at her challengingly.

Hermione smirked.

''Technically, no. Now, drink up and then you can tell me what's wrong.''

He sipped his tea and sighed.

''I shouldn't be here.'' He muttered.

''It's fine.''

''He'll know.'' He added darkly.

''That would require him to actually spend some time here.'' Hermione hissed before she took control of her temper and worry. ''And that isn't an issue at the moment. Besides, I think you'll find that I am more than adept at keeping things hidden from my husband.''

One eyebrow lifted over the rim of his glasses.

''Three weeks is a long time for him to be gone.'' The man murmured.

She shrugged, not surprised that he'd deduced the situation correctly.

''When Mycroft is worried, I'll worry.'' She lied. ''Now stop evading the question. What's wrong?''

He slumped into the armchair, curling around his tea. Rafiki settled himself against the man's arm, purring comfortingly.

''Last Friday, I lost contact with one of my operatives.''

''An important one?'' Hermione asked blandly.

He stiffened.

''They're all important.'' He insisted before faltering. ''But this one...especially. To me, at least. We haven't been able to re-establish contact in the last week.''

Hermione sighed.

''What are the chances they could be dead?'' She asked bluntly.

''High.''

''Have a sandwich.'' Hermione murmured, leaning back in her chair to think.

* * *

Ten minutes later, after her guest had demolished the entire plate of sandwiches in neat little bites and explained the situation more fully, she had come to a decision.

''I'm going to change the sheets.'' She announced. ''And you are going to take a shower.''

''But...''

She folded her arms.

''Do I look like a woman to argue with?'' She demanded.

He regarded her from behind the lenses of his glasses and then sighed.

''I can see why he married you.'' He murmured.

''No,'' She snapped coldly, ''You can't. Shower, then bed.''

He got to his feet, scowling magnificently.

''I'm older than you.'' He grumbled, shuffling towards the bathroom.

''By barely a year.'' Hermione retorted.

* * *

After being handed some of Harry's old pyjamas she'd found at the bottom of her bag, her guest had vanished, leaving Hermione to pour over Sherlock's collection of maps. Apparently the operative had vanished somewhere in Belgrade. He'd been investigating a drug-running gang, who'd had suspected ties to something more sinister. It should have been a routine mission.

Hermione poked the map with her wand and wrinkled her nose. Wasn't that always the case? It should have been a routine mission, a routine case, a routine wedding... Her phone chimed and Hermione grimaced. She unlocked it and scowled at the message from Mary. The woman was a dear friend and Hermione loved her like a sister, but Dear Merlin could that woman meddle.

**Going to Belgrade. Talk when I'm home**.

**HH**

A moment later Hermione scowled and added,

**Don't tell John please. He'd only worry**.

**HH**

She locked her phone again and headed for her bedroom. She got the sheets to change themselves with a flick of her wand, she'd normally do it the muggle way but she simply didn't have the time. While that was happening she changed out of her suit into jeans, boots and an old ''_I believe in Sherlock Holmes_'' t-shirt that she'd bought from one of her husbands groupies to annoy Sherlock. It hadn't had quite the effect she'd been hoping for as he mostly seemed smug when she wore it. A battered leather Auror jacket of Harry's went over the top and Hermione fastened her wand holster to her thigh, sliding the piece of vine wood securely in place. She reached for one of the hair bands in the pile on top of her chest of drawers and ruthlessly began to bind her hair back, walking into the living room as she did so.

Her guest reappeared from the shower several minutes later, looking sleepy and small in the borrowed pyjamas.

''You okay?'' Hermione asked, folding the maps and shoving them into her pockets.

He nodded, yawning.

''What do I do if..._He_ comes home?''

Hermione paused, fingers clenching around the mission brief. Then she sighed.

''He's not coming home,'' She murmured unhappily. ''Not for a while at least.''

''Do you want me to find him?'' The man gestured towards Sherlock's laptop. ''I can do that.''

''To be completely honest,'' Hermione admitted, turning to face him. ''I think I'm better off not knowing.''

Dark familiar eyes stared at her from behind his glasses.

''He doesn't deserve you.'' He stated at last.

Hermione shrugged.

''Maybe.''

''Why would you even stay with him?'' He demanded, suddenly energetic as he waved his hands through the air. ''I know what my brot...what _he_'s like. Why would you willingly shackle yourself to him? You're not doing it for money or power or...'' Hermione looked at him sadly and he stumbled to a stop. ''Oh..'' The man breathed. ''Oh. I'm sorry, Hermione. Believe me, I am so sorry.''

Hermione sighed.

''You need to sleep,'' She insisted, looking down at her feet. ''I should be back in a day at the most. There's food in the fridge and Mrs Hudson shouldn't bother you. Just get some rest and I'll fix everything.''

''You saved his life,'' The man breathed, amazed. ''Didn't you?''

Hermione remembered vividly a similar conversation she'd had with Mycroft years ago.

_''You saved him.'' He'd stared at her as though he was looking right through her. ''You're aware the danger you've put yourself in, the problems that you'll face?'' _

_Hermione had leaned back in her chair, scowling at the bright new ring gracing her finger. _

_''I'm very well aware, thank you Mycroft.'' _

_The older man had slumped in his office chair, his composure completely lost. _

_''Thank you.'' He breathed, ''Thank you, dear girl.''_

At the time Hermione had shrugged and waved aside Mycroft's attempt to give her the world, give her whatever she needed, to give her anything in an attempt to pay her back for what was, in Mycroft's mind, an act beyond repayment.

''Get some rest.'' Hermione murmured, heading for the door. Rafiki wound around her ankles as she went, purring loudly. ''My numbers on the fridge if you need me.'' She shut the door behind her and locked it.

* * *

Hermione's job came with an international portkey license, which made getting to Belgrade much easier. It took her three hours using the maps and the intelligence the operative had sent back to locate the gang. They were occupying a compound on the outskirts of the city. Hermione's Serbian hadn't improved since the last time she was here with Sherlock, so she walked as close as she could and then apparated onto the compounds roof. She hit the two guards with stunning charms and left them in an unconscious heap behind her.

It took her an hour to clear the compound completely and eventually she managed to find the steel door in the middle of a maze of corridors from which muffled shouts were coming.

''_Alohamora_,'' Hermione breathed and the door unlocked. She opened it slowly, praying that it didn't squeak on its hinges. She peered through the crack into the room beyond.

There were two men in the room. One was a large burly Serb, who was holding the knife. The other was hanging from his wrists, large iron shackles chaining him to an overhead pipe. Muscles bunched and tensed as he grimaced. He looked exhausted, pale, sweaty and, in places, bloody. Hermione grimaced as she took in the mangled skin where the manacles had sliced into his skin. His face had been cut into and the skin around his eyes and jaw were bruised and puffy. His eyes were still startlingly bright and he stared at Hermione across the room.

_Well?_ Those eyes seemed to say.

Hermione sighed and swung the door open, lifting her wand.

''_Stupify._''

The man crumpled into a heap and Hermione stepped over him to deal with his prisoner.

''Urgh,'' The man scowled, wrinkling his nose. ''You're one of _them_.''

Hermione smiled.

''Someone's very worried about you, James.'' She murmured, wordlessly unlocking his manacles. She caught him when he slumped, although her knees almost buckled under the weight. This man was extremely heavy.

''Worried enough to send you?'' The man gasped as his muscles relaxed and the ache started to set in properly.

''Worried enough that his Department sent for me to help him.'' Hermione corrected. ''Hold still.'' She ordered.

Blue eyes glared at her, but he stayed still long enough for to heal the worst of the cuts.

''Wouldn't do to send you back to him looking like this, now would it?'' She murmured as she held her wand tip to his left wrist, slowing knitting the flesh together. Healing wasn't taught at Hogwarts, but somewhere between being on the run with Harry and being on the run with Sherlock, Hermione had picked up enough to be of use.

''Is he...?'' The man started, before he cut himself off.

''He exhausted himself but...he's all right. I promise. Now do you know what a portkey is?''

James nodded sharply, getting to his feet with slow unsteady movements. Hermione followed wand ready to catch him in case he fell.

''Right then...'' She watched warily as he lifted the knife from the unconscious man's grip, ''Please don't,'' Hermione breathed. He blinked at her lazily like a cat and she knew it wouldn't do any good. She turned away instead and ignored the horrible sound of someone driving a knife into flesh.

Instead she pulled the map from her pocket and began to enchant it, holding her potions room firmly in her mind.

''Here,'' She said at last. She turned back to James, who'd been washing the blood off his hands in the sink in the corner. She made a point of not looking down. ''Hold tight.''

A moment later there came that familiar hook behind her navel and they were flying. And then they were falling and Hermione just remembered to catch herself in time to stop herself smacking straight into her wooden floor. Her companion wasn't so lucky and he hit the floor with a groan.

''Sorry.'' Hermione apologised, watching him get up. ''Come on. He's upstairs.''

* * *

She gave the two men peace to reunite, busying herself in her kitchen as she made another pot of tea and talked to Rafiki.

Eventually they reappeared in the sitting room, looking tired but marginally happier.

''Thank you.'' The shorter one breathed. James who had an arm around his waist and was looking around her flat with the air of a professional, rolled his eyes.

''I'd have gotten out eventually.'' He drawled.

Hermione ignored him.

''It's quite all right.'' She murmured, smiling. ''I needed something to take my mind off things and you are family after all.''

''Felix.'' The man said suddenly and Hermione jerked. ''My name is Felix.'' He stepped out the agent's arms and hugged her tightly. ''He doesn't deserve you. But if you ever need anything...You know where I am.''

Hermione returned the hug automatically, mind whirling.

''That's...Thank you.'' She said eventually. ''A pleasure meeting you, James. I hope its under better circumstances next time.''

She saw the pair of them out of the flat and into a cab. Then she went upstairs and changed the sheets, washed the dishes, cleaned the bathroom and texted Mary and Molly. Mrs Watson arrive twenty minutes later with a large box of chocolate, several bottles of cola, as Mary couldn't drink alcohol and a couple of DVD's tucked under her arm. She hugged the younger woman easily.

''It's okay,'' Mary promised, ''We'll find him, where ever he is.''

Hermione tucked her face into Mary's neck and didn't respond, just held on tightly. Molly did the same thing when she arrive ten minutes later.

* * *

_**So this took considerably longer to write than I'd expected.**_

_**Happy New Year everyone. I haven't seen the new Sherlock episode yet. Is it any good?**_

_**Hood**_


End file.
